Kissing the Sky

He's suspended from the mountain by just three fingers on one hand. If his tired digits let go, he falls ten feet until the next anchor catches him and smashes him into the wall of rock. His legs flail looking for footholds as he manages to swing and contort his body to grab a sliver of cratered rock in an otherwise smooth formation.

The area where he is on the mountain is jutted outward at a forty five degree angle. His legs still bicycle in mid air until one climbing shoe finally finds leverage. As words of encouragement are shouted from below, his tired leg muscles push and propels his body up a few feet. With an animal grunt, he pulls with his arms in unison, veins bulging, and he launches himself over the rock face. He lies on his back, panting, sweating, at the precipice of the mountain.

He stairs up at the sky, triumphant.

Will, Conviction, Motivation, Discipline

Harry stared at his belly in the gym locker room mirror. God, I'm fat, he thought. He wondered what people would think of him when he walked into the gym area. He should have brought sweats. This T-shirt was less than flattering.

He didn't know if this attempt at weight loss would take. It was the next one in a succession of many. They weren't all failures. He lost ten pounds on the vegan diet, but he couldn't take the blandness and gave up. He gained back the ten soon after the initial transgression of visiting a Wendy's.

Harry's goal was to lose fifteen this time. It was modest, considering that he would need to lose thirty more to truly fall out of the obese range. But he was tired of feeling like dirt, tired of feeling guilty after having an ice cream, tired of being ignored by women, tired of needing to catch his breath after a flight of stairs.

Harry exhaled and walked out of the locker room and into the gym. Somewhere in that expanse of exercise equipment was a treadmill with his name on it.

A Full House

Fiona smoothed out her dress while she waited in the elevator. The interior was covered with mirrors into which she gazed pensively at her reflection while caressing her stomach. She would start to show soon, but for now, she looked ravishing and she knew it. She exited on the penthouse floor, walked down the corridor and up to the man in the pinstriped suit. He opened the door for her after she supplied the correct code word.

Heads turned and eyes stared upon her entrance. Three poker tables with ten seats each were set up in the center of the room and lit by a large crystal chandelier. The otherwise dimly lit room was adorned with supple Italian leather furniture and crimson silk drapes that climbed the tall, narrow windows. A lone woman in a throng of men, she strode across the room and slid into an unoccupied chair.

Fiona knew she wasn't the most skilled player there, but when it came to poker, skill didn't always determine the victor. She, for one, was in it to win. She felt pairs of wandering, skittish eyes catching glimpses of her, trying to pry off her slinky red dress. She smiled, confident in the effect she was having on the group, hoping it would last throughout the night and throw off the competition's concentration.

She took the bank check out of her purse and placed it on the table. Admission here came with a high price. Spending so much money made her uneasy, but the baby was arriving in seven months and the mortgage statements were piling up. And as she had often heard, you had to spend money to make money.

"Sam Kenner," said the man with greedy and eager eyes next to her, holding out his hand.

"Julie Madison," she said, shaking it. She flashed her best seductive smile, entranced him with her perfume. She gave him a quick once-over and could tell that he would be an easy man to manipulate and defeat--the sort who did the majority of his thinking below the waist.

"I haven't seen you here before."

"First timer," she lied, still armed with that warm and welcoming smile. "I don't even know what I'm doing here!" she added with a giggle. Men liked it when she giggled.

"It's good to see a new face."

"Any tips?" she asked, twirling a strand of her auburn hair.

"Full house beats a flush," he said.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm full of great ideas."

"I have a few of my own, too," she said, leaning in and placing her hand on his thigh.

Pregnancy had come with unexpected calls of nature and feeling one coming, Fiona excused herself from the table. As ladylike as possible, she hurried to the restroom only to find it locked.

"I'll just be a moment," called out a muffled voice.

The door opened.

"Fiona?"

In the doorway stood a man in a dealer's vest wide-mouthed in shock. His name was Jason, a poor graduate student with a growing family for whom he was trying to provide for by secretly moonlighting as a dealer at illicit poker games. He was also Fiona's husband.

"What are you doing here?" Fear crept into his voice since she could be asking him just the same thing. He had told her he was going to be at Mark's.

"Shh!" Fiona looked around quickly and pushed her husband back into the restroom and locked the door behind them.

"And what the hell are you wearing?!" exclaimed Jason, who was not one to be shushed. He hadn't seen her wear that dress in a long time and never had it fit so well.

"I can explain..."

"Please."

So she explained and Jason did the same.

They left the restroom in less than amicable terms. She was mad that he lied to her; he was mad that she spent two thousand dollars of their nest egg--money they could not afford to lose.

"We'll talk later," he grumbled as they parted.

Composure was a lofty, if not unattainable goal at this point for Fiona, flustered being a severe understatement of her current condition. Back at the table, Sam resumed small talk but it went in one ear and out the other.

Dealers came to the tables signaling the start of the tournament and she breathed a sigh of relief to see that Jason wasn't assigned to hers. This, however, was short-lived. Moments later, he tapped their dealer on the shoulder. They whispered some words and swapped places.

Unwise as it may be, she tried to catch his eye. She needed to know that everything was okay. But he wouldn't meet her eyes.

The first hand was dealt and Fiona lost a quarter of her stake. The next several hands yielded similar results, dwindling the chip stack yet again. Sam continued to chatter on obliviously while she ignored him. Sufficed it to say, things were not going well. Normally she'd be flirting with every man at the table already, each of them wrapped around her fingers, a puppeteer to their marionettes. Now she was just trying to survive.

Fortune finally smiled on her with good hole cards, so she went in strong. It was now or never if she wanted to stay in the game. As he dealt the last community card to the table, Jason glanced furtively at her. When the card dropped, Fiona allowed herself the tiniest of smiles.

The last round of bets were made. Cards were shown and one thing was clear: her full house most definitely beats a flush.

Close Encounters

At times, Mickey Studebaker was known as being crotchety, easily irritable, but none of those words described the level of frustration that he was currently facing. The furniture delivery truck just ahead of him on the road had already weaved in and out of his lane two times already. The driver was obviously incompetent!

Everyone else was just driving past the truck. Some honked, but no one was really doing anything about it. Mickey hated it when people stood by while morons ran the world. He remembered that most of these types of trucks had phone numbers printed on the back for driving feedback. He thought he saw one there and moved over behind the truck and inched closer.

He could see the number now. It was preceded by the usual question, "How's my driving?"

"Well, I'd be happy to tell them," he muttered to himself while he fumbled for his phone.

He didn't have his ear piece adapter for the phone, so he drove with one hand while he dialed with the other.

"Hello?"

"Yea," said Mickey. "I have a complaint about one of your drivers. This fella has been coming in and out of my lane without signaling for about 10 minutes now. It's ridiculous. How do you train these drivers of yours?!"

"Sir, we do not represent the actual companies that employ the drivers. We only take down feedback from callers. We provide this service for many companies. Perhaps you can give me the name of the company and the ID number of the truck."

"It's Mona's Furniture, but I don't know where the damn number is," he said irritably.

"It's usually on the back of the truck near where the phone number is, sir."

"Okay, okay. Let me see," he said as he eased closer to the truck.

"Sir, I really must suggest that you not drive while we speak. Perhaps you could get the number and then call us back?"

"I know what I'm doing," Mickey grumbled. He wasn't about to have someone tell him what he could or couldn't do.

He squinted as he started reading off the numbers. "5...3...1...5..."

Up ahead, a speed trap started a slow-down domino effect. When the Mona's Furniture truck hit its brakes, old Mickey was still reading off the last three numbers. Concentrating on the numbers, and being so close to the truck already, he had no time to brake, and promptly smacked the rear bumper of the truck. His airbag exploded out of the steering column, knocked the phone from his hand, and covered his face in dust.

"Sir, are you there?"

Thump-Thump-Thump

Tommy begs his father to read him the bedtime story even though his father tells him that it will be too scary, that he'll have nightmares. But he is insistent, and the soft-hearted father relents.

In the story, an invisible dream goblin creeps into a boy's room. He knows that the goblin is there whenever he hears the telltale thump-thump-thump that he hears coming from his bedroom floor. The boy tells his parents but they do not believe him. In the end, a wizard comes and banishes the goblin.

Tommy's father tells the story with flourish, complete with funny voices and acted out scenes. Tommy, of course, enjoys it immensely and can't wait for the next night for another story.

When his father leaves and shuts the light switch, leaving him in darkness, Tommy drifts into sleep. He hears a thump-thump-thump and pulls the covers up over his head.

Opportunity is Knocking

It was strange for someone who hated her job, but there Sharon was, recruiting on behalf of her company. The career fair was awash with companies from all over the country, competing for undergraduates to groom into productive full-time employees.

Sharon enjoyed her time away from the job. She got to stretch her legs, speak to people not yet jaded by life. Dutifully, she detailed the requirements that they were looking for and gave a straight performance, not going too much into her own disdain for the work.

During a few breaks, she wandered around the gym, and networked. Opportunities were everywhere. She talked to other companies and handed out business cards. In a couple of weeks she got some calls from some prospective employers. In a month, she had a new job in San Francisco, with relocation expenses paid for.

Craving

"Jesus Christ, John," said Grant, "what's your damn rush!"

Grant unclenched after the last hairpin turn. It might have been after midnight, but there was no cause to turn left at a red light without braking, even if there was no other traffic. He tested his seatbelt, pulling quickly on it away from his body, making sure that it held taught. He gripped the seat when he saw the next turn looming ahead.

"I thought you wanted to get there in time too. Didn't you say you wanted some?" John asked. He stared fixedly on the road.

"Yea, but in one piece please."

Grant knew his mom's minivan wasn't built for this kind of driving. He never should've let his maniac of a friend get behind the wheel. If anything happened to the car, his parents would make his life miserable when they got back.

"This is a local road. Local! Slow down!" he shouted, eyeing the speedometer with apprehension.

"Almost there..." came the calm reply.

Tires screeched to a halt as they narrowly missed hitting a driver who foolishly thought he had the right of way at an all-way stop intersection just because he got there first.

Grant braced himself by pressing his hands in front of him. He breathed hard. In between breaths he said, "Get out. I'm driving."

"What for? We're here," said John, pointing to the illuminated white exterior of the White Castle across the street.

They pulled up to the drive-thru speaker.

John leaned out of the window. "You guys still serving?"

There was a small pause, then some static before the voice came over the speaker.

"Sir, we're open 24 hours. What would you like tonight?"

Grant resisted the urge to clobber his friend.

Surf

The calm between the crests provides you with a chance to catch your breath until the next wave of punishment. The ocean water is cold even in your wet suit as you paddle , slow at first, then fast to try to to catch the falling wall of crashing water. You get up on the board, faltering just for a second, but finding your balance. As you stand, you look to the your sides and you see white foam spewing towards the beach, taking you along for the ride. It's exhilarating, this feeling. Near the end of the ride, your tired body makes a minute mistake and you fall into the water.

You get back up. You're exhausted, but you aren't done. You look out to the horizon and see more waves coming in, beckoning you to ride them one last time. So you paddle again, exerting twice as much effort to get back out there than it takes to come to shore. Cold water laps your face, but you do not shiver. You just think of catching the next wave, and even though you know that you'll be sore as death tomorrow, you don't care. There is only the surf.

A Steady Hand

Lewis Hancock practiced it a thousand times until his wrist was sore and it was ingrained into his muscle memory. He practiced he curl of the W, traced the trailing flourish at the end of the N. He shredded the sheets when he was confident the signature was good enough--at least enough so that no one either than a forgery expert would identify it as a fake. By then, it would be too late. For all intents and purposes, he was now Wilson Reardon, owner of safety deposit box #3271, Prime National Bank.

A Prince's Dilemma

The day started normally for the prince. He had his daily list of things to do, written neatly on parchment by his bed. There was a damsel in distress three towns over who was stuck up a mountain by a witch. An ogre was terrorizing a village and eating all of their cattle. And there was the usual dragon that needed to be dealt with, but it was at least two days away by horse.

But the horse wasn't ready. He went to the stables and it was no where to be seen. The stable boy said it was being horseshoed and evidently was not feeling well either. He suggested that the prince take another horse, but he would have none of it. He had a horse; it was lucky and that was all there was to it.

But then, he thought, he could make do. Certainly, nothing bad would happen just because he rode a different horse. That is, as long as he had his trusty sword. He went in search of it and it too was also missing.

He stopped the blacksmith's apprentice and asked him about it. The apprentice said that the blacksmith had taken it to hone it, as someone had dropped it and chipped its edge. The apprentice suggested that the prince take another sword. He told the prince that they were all made of the highest quality by the blacksmith himself. Of course the prince was hesitant about this. He had fought all his battles with this sword. It was familiar, like an extension of his arm.

But then, he thought, he could make do. He could ride another horse, use another sword. There was so much to do that day. Damsels, ogres, and dragons and so forth--as long as he had his smart looking hat. So, he went to look for his hat, but again it was no where to be found. He stopped a maid and asked her for it. She told him that someone dropped it in some mud and they were washing it. She suggested that he pick out another one.

This was the last straw. He could do without his horse or his sword. But now his hat as well! He would have none of this. He marched back to his room and went back to bed. The damsel, ogres, and dragons will wait until tomorrow.

Babies, Babies Everywhere

Guy #1: It's true!

Guy #2: Whatever...

Guy #1: I'm telling you, if real life was anything like the movies, we'd either have a huge overpopulation problem or a huge abortion industry.

Guy #2: (Rolls his eyes.)

Guy #1: Watch any movie. Pick one at random and what do you see? Unprotected sex everywhere! Couples or strangers get hot and heavy and they just strip down right there and then and starting going at it.

Guy #2: People don't go to movies to watch condoms being used. They want to see relevant things. They want to see explosions. They want cursing. They want sex. They don't care about protection.

Guy #1: That's not the point. That's a whole other issue.

Guy #2: You pay too much attention to stupid shit. Just watch the movie for God's sake.

(Voice yells from the back for them to quiet down. They resume watching the movie at the theater.)

Lothario in the Examination Room

It's not the most glamorous thing, getting tested for venereal diseases. But he sits there taking his licks. It is a danger of the job, so to speak. A ladies man has many partners and once in a while, when your piss starts to sting, you take the necessary precautions.

The nurse comes in. She's a slinky red thing, wearing scrubs at least one size too small. He tries to control himself, knows that the next part is going to go much worse if he doesn't relax. She smiles, introduces herself, and prepares the swab.

The swab looks like q-tip--one that looks all too big to fit where it's going to go. He wonders if this is an appropriate time to talk to her. It's an unusual situation to meet someone. But she sure is attractive and he is still date-less for Friday, a rarity for him. He lays exposed on the table while he ponders his situation.

She inserts the swab and it sends a shiver up his spine. He grimaces.

Oh hell, he thinks, she's already seen all of him that there is to see and they haven't even had a date yet.

"So," he says with a wry smile, still on his back, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She Fell From the Sky

The beach was overflowing with people, especially so for a fall day. The weather was unseasonably warm. Families swarmed over available spots of sandy real estate. Teenagers laid in beach chairs sunning under a partly cloudy sky.

One of the clouds in that lonely troposphere broke apart in the middle and something small fell from the formed hole. It flew down like a meteor, growing larger and larger by the second. Someone yelled and pointed skyward and then the whole beach full of people turned to look. They could make out clothing flapping frantically in the wind as the object came crashing down. A collective thought came into their minds: it was a human being.

The free fall last no more than thirty seconds. The body splashed climatically into the ocean about half a mile from shore, making a large splash that sent white foamy sea water several feet into the air.

The crowd gathered at the shore line. Some gasped. 911 calls were made.

When the ambulances came, the EMS workers parted the onlookers and the lifeguards prepared jet skis to move out. The crowd chatted noisily as people do when they are witnesses to extraordinary events. Calls and texts were made to friends with common questions. Who was the person? Was he or she dead? Surely. Where did the person come from? Who would fall out of the sky?

But then everything stopped. The EMS workers stopped walking. The jet skis were shut off. Beach-goers stopped talking. Silence.

From within the throng, an anonymous voiced echoed, "Oh, my God."

A woman, no older than thirty, had emerged from the water. She slowly walked towards the beach, water slapping at her legs. She had piercing green eyes and an expressionless face. She had no injuries that they could see, no markings. Shredded clothes hung from her lithe body, no doubt torn by wind forces and the impact on the water.

When she got to the beach's edge, she was suddenly overcome by exertion. Her step faltered and she fell over, fainted.

The Lion's Widow

The zoo was packed today and the exhibits were awash with families of tourists. Monkeys howled in their cages, donkeys bayed at the petting zoo. Penguins waddled. Preening dolphins pleased crowds with backflips.

But the lioness without her lion hid in the shadow of a desert tree. Elephants trumpeted and sea lions bellowed, but there was something missing. There were no roars. The lion had always drawn large crowds. The proud patriarch of the pride would stand tall on a rock and roar. People that milled around other habitats would find themselves wandering over, pressing their faces against the protective glass for a better look.

The lioness stared emptily at the humans with a loss that she couldn't understand. Her tail swished and swatted away flies. Hearing a sound in the brush, she turned quickly, but it was only one of the cubs. She got up, made the rounds along the edge of the habitat, right against the glass and got some oohs and ahhs, then made her way back to her spot. She laid there, head on her paws, in the same spot where her mate breathed his last breath before the people took him away. It still felt warm.

The Burn

His eyes burned. Unwilling to sleep, there was too much left to be done. There were chores left unattended for way too long. But it had been twenty hours since he had any rest. Ten pound weights hung from his eyelids and his head started to bob. At ten past midnight his mind gave in, having no more energy left, and his head slumped onto the desk. He woke up eleven hours later with crick in his neck.

Napping Amongst the Herd

Lunchtime awaits the herd everyday at eleven in the cubicle farm. Folks mill around the refrigerator and microwave, retrieving sandwiches and heating up last night's leftovers. You grab yours and take your food to your seat because it's the only time they let you have personal internet time.

In the cube next to yours, you hear your neighbor snore. It is no ordinary snore. It is one of legend, worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records if there was such a category for loudest, most obnoxious snore. It varies from sighs that linger, sudden gasps that startle, to pained gurgling reminiscent of a person with a mouth full of Listerine. It starts and stops in fits. You surreptitiously open and slam drawers to wake him, this menace to your hour of tranquility. It grants you a reprieve, but it never lasts. You try to zone him out as you catch up on the day's headlines.

At noon, it stops. He wakes up as if by some internal clock. You resist the urge to key his car.

Pimpin' Ain't Easy

"So that's the way it's going to be?" she stammered.

"You knew the deal when you signed on," he said.

"Signed on? What did I buy? A car?" She was near hysterics.

"Now," he said, trying to be consoling, "You know I love you."

"Hah!" She nearly spat the word out. "But you won't leave her, your dear wife."

"I never said I would."

"You're a liar."

He grew irritated. "Maybe you should be more grateful. Who do you think pays for this apartment? Those clothes in your closet?"

"So? What? It's all about money now, right?"

"No, I didn't--"

"Because I'm not a whore, Henry. You don't get to say that. You don't get to buy me things out of guilt and then come by whenever you want for a roll in the hay. "

"Helen..."

"Just because you bought all of this," she said motioning around the room, "doesn't mean you own me. Far from it. I never asked for any of it. I was happy where I was. All I ever wanted was you."

"It's not that easy," he said, tired.

"No, I guess not," she said in a voice lowered to a whisper. "It should be, but it isn't."

"Helen..."

She went over to the table and picked up the apartment keys. She stopped at the door and turned around, looked at the man she used to love, still loved, but couldn't bear to love anymore.

"I'm going for a walk," she said. "When I come back, I'm packing up and leaving. I'll mail you the keys. Don't come looking for me."

She closed the door before she could hear his reply.

A Sinking Feeling

A trip of a lifetime, the brochure had read. That much of it was true, except it was not what he had expected. Already three feet deep in quicksand in an Amazon rainforest after walking off the trail to take a leak, Jack Snead was in a predicament. He wondered how long it would take for the trail guide to realize he was missing, then how long it would take for him to figure out where he left the trail.

The sounds of the forest echoed from the canopy overhead. It was quite beautiful he remarked, as he floated in the water and sand mixture. Prepared with only a few Discovery Channel specials, he knew he was supposed to stay calm and float, but with nothing to grab on to, he was up mud creek without a paddle, so to speak.

The quicksand was different than he had imagined. It was dark and cool. If he ignored the temptation to panic for his life, it was actually quite soothing. He imagined it was like a full body mud bath, something people back in L.A. probably pay a few hundred bucks for. And here he was getting it for free!

Waiting for help, he couldn't help but think of another Discovery Channel special he saw about a fish that swam up men's urethras. Was that in the Amazon, he thought? He thought it was only in actual bodies of water, but was unnerved since he had fallen in when he was relieving himself. He was essentially pantless in a pit of Amazon mud, with who know how many different types of microbes.

Jack Snead called out once more for help, then closed his eyes and listened to the forest. It was going to be a long day.

Autumn

Little Anna Graham had just had her training wheels removed from her bike and it couldn't have come sooner. She zipped up and down the sidewalk, her proud father standing on their lawn smiling but urging her to slow down. Of course she never would. It wasn't in her nature.

Free of the burden of constant balance and the uneven ride that the additional wheels provided, Anna felt like she could fly. She eyed a small pile of leaves that had gathered from an invisible whirlwind and soared right through it.

The leaves opened a path for her and were flung into the sky. They danced as they fell--the reds, oranges, and yellows--pirouetting and twisting until they landed back on the earth.

Trigger

He felt hot for some reason, almost feverish. Beads of perspiration ran down his unclothed body. A breeze from the bedroom window chilled him. Outside a bird woke up and chirped.

The gun, new and unfamiliar, rested on his lap. The metallic cold transferred to his hands as he picked it up and examined it. He shook uncontrollably but not from the temperature. He released the magazine. There were two rounds--one more than he needed. He placed the gun next to him on the bed and sat at the edge. There was a call to make.

She picked up after the first ring.

"Hello?" she said.

Struck with cottonmouth, he could not manage to say anything but a wheeze that escaped. He pressed the phone against his head in anguish. There were so many things to be said, but even now he couldn't do it. A tear slid down his cheek and then his chest, co-mingling with sweat.

"Hello?" she said again, this time muffled with the phone still pressed to his head.

Then the line went dead. She had hung up.

He thought about calling her again, but he knew it wouldn't change anything. There was so much to say that he'd never be able to get it all out in the time of a phone call. He picked up the gun and put the phone in its place.

He clicked off the safety and pulled the slide back to chamber the round. The sound of the metal slide was loud in the dark, quiet room. Outside, the bird kept chirping.

Adam the Amazing

The first day I found out I could render myself invisible, I was seven. It was an exhilarating, liberating experience. It was the most significant thing to happen to me since the last summer, when I found out I could not fly, even if I took off from the highest branch I could find on a tree. Apparently it only worked for birds. I had a cool cast though.

My first invisibility test was my mother. With steady concentration to maintain my transparent condition, I ventured into the kitchen where she was preparing dinner. I stood there for five minutes and remained unnoticed the entire time. Then she turned and bumped into me, which jolted me and I lost control of the invisibility field.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't see you there!"

That was all I needed to hear. But what was I to do with this new found power? Would I use it for good or evil?

Well, seven-year-old minds wander, and soon I forgot about my quandary with morality. My new mission was to sneak up on the Hendersons' cat and scare it.

And that was how my mother got a call from a hysterical neighbor about a boy in a white sheet carrying his cat away.

Dinner, Interrupted

(Originally published - The Shine Journal September 2008)


Nathan arrived home at the usual time and changed into sweats. Aside from being wet from the drizzle outside and the humdrum of the office, it was not a bad day. Sounds emanated from the television in the living room as he came downstairs from the bedroom. He peeked in.

"Where's your mother?" he asked his daughter, Jessie.

"At Aunt Carla's. Book club or something, remember?" she said, without looking away from the screen.

"Oh. Right."

He went into the kitchen and found a mostly bare refrigerator. An orange. A carton of milk. Half of an apple pie. A few condiments. There was plenty in the freezer, but he was too hungry to thaw anything. "Did you eat yet?" he called from the kitchen.

"Yeah. Angela's mom made mac and cheese."

"Still hungry?"

"No."

He rummaged through the pantry. There must be something there he could eat. The television emitted excited noises from the other room.

"What are you watching?"

"Some car chase. They say it's happening right now."

Nathan listened from the kitchen as he settled on a can of tuna fish scavenged from the pantry. A reporter was speaking while he brought out the mayo and bread to make a sandwich.

"...that's right Dan," said the reporter over the din of rotating blades, "We're here in the WXTV helicopter, your Eye in the Sky, above the scene as it's unfolding. An unidentified man has stolen the Ford Mustang you see here on the screen and is now involved in a dangerous chase with police on this busy stretch of highway. We can see two cruisers trying to pull up to him, but the Mustang keeps cutting them off. He's going extremely fast, probably exceeding 100 miles per hour. The other cars on the highway look stationary in comparison. Let's just hope this all comes to a safe--Oh wow--"

The reporter in the helicopter went on to describe in detail the near collision the Mustang had with a tractor trailer as it tried to evade the police once again. Nathan finished making the sandwich as the man chattered excitedly on, his voice climaxing to a crescendo by the time he was done putting away the mayonnaise and bread.

"Sweetheart, can you turn that down?" he asked, but heard no answer over the volume and the reporter sounded like he was about to burst a blood vessel.

"--there is no way he can maintain these speeds off the highway like this. Even the police are having a hard time just keeping close to him without adding any more danger to the situation. JESUS CHR--"

Nathan placed the sandwich on a plate on the kitchen table and entered the living room. He tapped his daughter on the shoulder. "I think I'm going deaf," he said.

"Oh. Sorry." Jessie momentarily unglued her eyes from the television and turned it down. "You should've seen it dad! The guy almost ran someone over in a supermarket parking lot! He knocked the grocery cart across the entire street. There was stuff everywhere!"

Nathan saw the car fishtail taking a perilous turn onto a small residential street. Something was bothering him, and it took him a second to realize that the corner store of that street looked familiar. As the helicopter's camera followed the Mustang down the street, he spotted some other things that looked awfully familiar, including a house with black shutters and a blue Toyota Camry in the driveway.

"--coming down this narrow street. He better watch out for those puddles," continued the muted reporter. "One misstep and he can spin out of control, hydroplaning into--"

Jessie squinted at the screen. "Isn't that our--"

Then came a shattering crash from the kitchen. Father and daughter raced into the kitchen to find a fire-red Ford Mustang crumpled inside their house after obliterating the wall that faced the street. Debris was strewn everywhere, including the groaning driver, who was thrown through the windshield and across the room directly onto the kitchen table, where the tuna sandwich had been.

"Now what am I going to eat?" was all Nathan managed to say.

The Silver Screen

(Originally published - The Shine Journal September 2008)


Sophie huddled close and grabbed my hand with her small mitten-covered fingers. The sun had risen only an hour ago and it had yet to warm up. Winter was being stubborn, refusing to let go. I bent down and fixed her hat which was coming off.

"Is this where grandpa is?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said. "We'll find out."

I stared up at the blank marquee of the Mason Theatre, closed for five years now, although it probably should have been shut down sooner. The one-screen building opened up its doors in the 1960s, bringing Hollywood movies to the average man, woman, and child in this small coastal town. It stood now, a ghost of a landmark, creaking in chilled ocean wind.

"Come on." I grabbed her hand and we walked past the empty ticket seller's booth.

The heavy wooden doors at the entrance were ajar and groaned when I pushed on them. They had never changed the locks; he must have used his old key. Inside, the lobby was unchanged for the most part from when the theater first opened. It was just as I remembered from many years ago, before I grew up, before I moved away and started a family of my own. An old, matted auburn carpet welcomed us and the concession stand that used to house sweets under its glass case lay bare. Everything was like it was--with a layer of dust.

"Dad?" I called out.

"Grandpa?" Sophie tried to be helpful.

There was no response. I walked up to the swinging saloon type doors that led into the theater and gave them a shove. Sunlight sneaked its way through the high windows in the lobby and filtered into the aisles as the doors swayed open and shut.

"Dad?"

"Quiet," said a familiar voice in the darkness. "The movie is about to begin."

Sophie clung to me and grabbed at the folds in my jacket as we felt our way around in the dark. Ten rows of seats were illuminated for a couple of seconds each time the swinging doors opened and let in some light. At last, I saw a bald head peering inches above a headrest in a middle row.

We walked over and sat next to the sole audience member.

"Dad, it's time to go home."

"After the movie," he replied.

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. The Alzheimer's was worse, even more than when we had come for Christmas. His memory came and went, like the unpredictability of this spring chill. He was seventy seven, to the day.

My father worked at the Mason for thirty eight years and had loved every year of it. He loved giving people a good night of entertainment, the sound of laughter in a crowded theater, and watching movie stars come to life up on the screen. Being his son, it was a love I had come to share with him.

"Up there on that silver screen," he said to no one in particular, "the greats honed their craft. Using nothing more, they made people laugh, cry, gasp, and even love. It's the beauty of cinema."

I looked up at the front of the theater, and of course, there was no screen, only darkness.

"What screen, grandpa?" asked Sophie.

And just like that--whether it was from his granddaughter's voice or the realization that there was indeed no screen--the switch in his head clicked back on.

"Oh Sophie! It's so good to see you, my little sugarplum. How are you Daniel?"

"Good, Dad," I said. "How about we get going, huh?"

"Oh, yes."

I gave him my coat because he had forgotten his. He held it close to his body and took one last look at an imaginary screen before I placed my hand on his shoulder and led him out.

As we walked out with Sophie skipping along behind us, my father turned and looked at the ticket seller's booth. "Your mother used to work in there you know, selling tickets. They were fifty cents."

"Wow, that's really something," I said, pretending I was hearing it for the first time. "Let's head home. Mom's waiting."

"I made you a card Grandpa!" Sophie said.

"Well isn't that nice," remarked the old man.

In Dreams

(Originally published - Static Movement July 2008)


I drift off into sleep a lot, a circumstance that accompanies a man of my advanced years. It could be in bed, the recliner in the den, the rocking chair in the garden, or on the park bench after feeding the ducks at the pond. The dreams come when I close my eyes. I am usually smoking in them, and they are pleasant, though not for that reason. Cigarettes have been such a prominent part of my life that it is hard to think of a time when I have not had a stick of tobacco between my fingers.

When my dreams happen upon the start of my affair with nicotine, I see myself as a carefree and happy fifteen year old. We had played a stellar baseball game at the local field. My best friend then was Jimmy Ciglutti, and Jimmy and I walked home afterwards, congratulating each other and miming the highlights of the game. I had three homers, my crowning sports achievement to date. My grand slam in the bottom of the eighth was the farthest hit ball at Washington Fields Park until Mikey Rosenthal hit a humdinger over the fence into Mr. Cleary's yard two years later. At Jimmy's house later that day, he produced a cigarette that he had rifled out of his mother's purse the night before. We shared it, taking a few puffs each, coughing something terrible. It was new and exhilarating and I suppose there laid the attraction.

Sometimes I dream of my first kiss with my high school sweetheart, Maryanne Lewis. We were both nervous, but I think I was more so because I wanted it to be perfect. It happened on the front steps of her house, clumsy at first, magnificent in the finish. I remember walking home, light of step and mind, taking deep drags on the cigarette. I was up to almost half a pack a day by then.

My brain cycles through my life during slumber, offering up glimpses of the past to an old man who longs for them in his waking hours. They are always specific to an event, and I invariably smoked in them, whether it was before, during, or after. It could be getting an A on an essay from an admired English professor, winning the bike raffle at the county fair, or getting the promotion that I had worked so hard for.

On particularly lonesome days, I dream of the night Maryanne and I made love. We had parted ways after high school, certain that the distance apart in our respective colleges would be too much for our budding relationship to endure. But the desire and passion for each other overtook us one summer while we were both home on break between semesters. Afterwards, I remember watching her sleep, wondering how a ring would look on her as the moonlight highlighted the contours of her lithe body. Then I sat up in bed and had a cigarette, the amber end emitting a steady and slender tendril of smoke.

Sometimes the dream is far less pleasant. It was the day I smoked my last cigarette: January 7th, 1972. We were at the doctor's office for a follow-up because Maryanne had been ill for weeks with no explanation. The doctor asked us to sit down and with the hesitation that often comes before giving bad news, he told us it was lung cancer. The words struck me like a freight train, but Maryanne, the angel that she was, listened patiently, her face not betraying any fear. I tried to follow suit, but I became physically ill and excused myself, claiming that I needed to get some air. Outside the clinic, the wind bit into my face. I nervously lit a cigarette and let it limply hang between my lips. My eyes clouded and I took a long look at the cigarette, jaws clenched. There was so much anger and disdain within me, at the cigarette, and ultimately...at myself. I threw it down on the ground and stamped it out in disgust. Maryanne died on June 17th of that year, never having touched a stick of the poison herself.

Nowadays, at the ripe old age of eighty-six, I am generally still able-bodied. When my old, arthritic knees cooperate, I take walks in the park. When my eyes aren't too tired, I read a good book or watch the occasional television show. Sometimes I simply sit in my room, surrounded by the pictures of a wife cruelly taken away too early. Thanks to Maryanne I also have beautiful children and grandchildren to remember her by. I anticipate and cherish their visits, although I wish they would come by more often.

The faint aroma of tobacco still lingers in my mind, but the hunger for it has long gone. Now I only smoke in my dreams.

Fleet-Footed Mornings

She runs, feet churning in rhythm like pistons as they contact the pavement. A slipstream of air and dust trails behind her. It's a crisp morning. She wears a light hooded sweatshirt and a headband that contains her unruly chestnut hair that flits and flutters in the breeze. The ocean air energizes her for the final mile. Looking to her side, she glimpses the beginning of a sunrise. It turns the world orange and red. She grits her teeth and sprints, her breaths become shallower, her taught legs become a blur. One more mile.

Reincarnation

He looked at the old blog posts and wondered what he was thinking. They rambled, flailing with words, only interesting to the author himself. A post about bug guts cemented to car windshields. One ranting on the utter unreliability of alarm clocks. There were three hundred posts and a few comments--half of them spam--on several of them. They had lost their appeal. One by one, he clicked the delete button on each post, eradicating their existence from the web at large, until the blog was but an empty shell.

The plan for the replacement blog was for it to be an exercise in writing, to get the creative juices flowing. It needed a new URL though, a new name. It should be witty. It should be eye-catching. It should appeal. It should become so popular that he could start getting ad revenue and retire. Maybe something with an animal. The Sleepy Cow? No. The Extemporaneous Soapbox? Too long. In the end, he gave up. He was lazy. The blog was all about writing, which generally involves a writing implement. So, The Lazy Pen was ready for its emergence into cyberspace. He quickly typed out the inaugural post without proofreading it, hoping that with some resolve, there would be more to follow.